


Indian summer

by airafleeza



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Break Up, Pre-Omnic Crisis, but things will be okay eventually, pre-SEP days, until shit hits the fan again with Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza
Summary: Vincent’s voice is the first chilled breeze that brings about the end of an Indian summer. “It’s okay, Jack.” There is sadness and acceptance in his soft-spoken words. Irritation flares hot in Jack’s veins. “Knowing what you don't want is just as important as knowing what you do.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends!!
> 
> I want to start off by saying this was a fic I didn't know I was writing. I was aiming to write trash and told myself to get through all the exposition so I could get to the juicy bits. I realized the first 5k of my fic was in a completely different 'verse than the remainder of the story. It had to go!!
> 
> I liked this darling enough to keep her, so here she is. Typically I do 1,000 drafts and make my friends edit/beta it, but for this one I just want to be free and move on. I have art to make and other stories to tell, but a couple peeps on twitter seemed to be interested when I shared an excerpt. So, to those peeps, know that it's you who gave me the courage to share!! 
> 
> Uploading in parts because I've got a lot of shit going on and it's less intimidating for me this way. 
> 
> Pls keep in mind that I have only been two Chitown twice and have only driven through Indiana. I'm a west coast spud who just moved to the east coast. On another note, IDC how military/army shit works and did little to no research. Ta! Enjoy!

The longing hits Jack like his bigoted neighbor kid had the summer he was ten years old and clearly uninterested in girls. That was his first black eye: both giving and receiving. Jack remembers the split second where his skin stung on impact before swelling up, before the capillaries beneath his right eye ruptured. He rubs his face. He can still feel it, the sting and ache. Right now, something similar burns unexpectedly in his chest—sharp and bright—before dropping down into the hollow pit of his stomach. 

“Should see if ma made anything,” he mutters to himself, scratching his head and hoping he’s just hungry. The empty twin-sized bed in the middle of his small attic room catches his eye. 

The truth is Jack was halfway moved out of his parents’ house ever since he and Vincent got together. Mr. and Mrs. Morrison have been good to both of them; it’s Jack who makes things awkward with his tiptoeing around, as if everything might come crashing down if he isn’t careful. There isn’t a reason for it—hell, when his mom found out he was gay, she quietly started to volunteer downtown with LGBT youth groups. Even his rough-around-the-edges pop never said a word either way. He was civil and apparently couldn’t care less as long as Jack did his chores around the farm and listened to his mother.

It made coming out a non-momentous occasion. He was just himself and everyone else picked up on his interest in men sooner or later. Jack was friendly without being inviting and had nothing to hide. Vincent, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. Fortunately, rent wasn’t too bad in Bloomington. The appeal of a place where his parents weren’t in charge was another bonus that sealed the deal of Jack unofficially moving in with his boyfriend. He’d come by the farm every few days to get a good meal and help his parents around the place. Talk around the table usually centered around his job at the hardware store. In the evening, he’d start a load of laundry and fold it in the morning before taking off again. It was nice, idyllic—and apparently had been going on for longer than he thought, judging by the thick layer of dust that had settled on his untouched bookcase and half-empty dresser.

Things could have stayed like this forever—at least, they should have. Jack was happy sometimes. He had no reason not to be. There were movie nights with his ankles hooked around Vincent’s, golf lessons with his insistent boss. Everyone he’s ever known is still within the city limits. He’s never fooled himself into thinking he’s special, that he is meant for bigger things than Indiana and a domestic life in the town he grew up in. However, something in his foundation shifted when Omnica reportedly lost control and talk about a god program taking hold of once-peaceful omniums overseas filled the long silences. After that, he isn't sure what came first: the fire lit beneath his skin or the black hole of disillusionment. It bled into his steady relationship where Jack had loved and been loved. 

During the last dregs of an unreasonable Indian summer—the kind where all the windows were kept open and everyone slept in thin white sheets with the fan on—Jack couldn’t settle. At first he thought it was the heat. Vincent, sound sleeper that he was, was shirtless and spread out. He took up more than his half of the bed. His tan skin was hot to the touch and unbearable, forcing Jack to the edge of the mattress. For a moment, his mind was at peace—the frogs and crickets, the constant whirr of the fan, Vincent’s chest rising and falling. Strange, how he could reach out and touch this man—this beautiful man—whenever he wanted because he was always within reach. This was more than some people ever had and Jack ruffled Vincent’s dark hair just to make it real. He thought, _wonder if we’ll get enough hot water for two showers_ , and _we might as well just share one when Vince is up_. They had no plans for their rare day off together, which meant they had all the time in the world to screw around.

If he craned his neck enough, Jack could see the stars. By the time he was seven, he knew where to find constellations for every season. That was almost fourteen years ago. In another fourteen, he thought, he’d be able to list them all. As long as the chaos stayed out of the States and left Indiana alone, Jack would probably be here in fourteen years’ time.

 _I don’t want to be able to list them all,_ he realized. Mankind was a small blip in the universe, his life a blink in comparison to the life of a star. He didn’t want to stand still long enough to remember them all, not when there was work to be done elsewhere. The news was more alarming by the day. More times than not, Vincent turned the TV off or made Jack change the channel when he entered the room. It was of no use: Jack had heard enough.

Going to work, coming home and kissing his boyfriend. Driving with the windows down and laughing with a warm hand on his thigh, beers in the backseat with a vague destination in mind. These were Jack’s reward for being lucky, for being at the right place and time. For privilege given. Instinct told Jack to reject what he hadn’t earned. Life and living were a prison sentence—theft—and not something to look forward to. The thought that followed nearly gutted him: _I don’t want to die here without doing something._

The morning after was uneventful. Vincent, bless his heart, continued on, unaware and patient to a fault. He rarely demanded answers from Jack, even when Jack noticed himself his own sour mood. Vincent didn’t ask if things were okay. The muggy day continued, thick and slow like syrup, until Jack thought he was going to drown in it. The TV was on in the background, the buzz of the old television set no longer ambient sound but rather a consuming buzz in Jack’s ears. He left on a jog, promising to do the dishes if Vincent made dinner, and ran until everything burned and only his thoughts and the sound of his breathing were left. The stars were out by the time he made it home, Vincent half-asleep on the porch steps. It was clear he was waiting for him. Affection bloomed, stunted by the sudden surge of guilt. Dinner was in the microwave, ready to be reheated, but Jack went straight back to the porch. Vincent was already out like a light by the time Jack sat down, leaving Jack to cling to him and watch the sunrise. 

Try as he might to hold on, it didn’t matter. The next day when Vincent kissed Jack at the door and told him to have a good day at work, Jack knew then that he was too far gone to come back to Vincent.

Perhaps the longing isn’t so much for a place or person as it was for a point in life where things were steady and reliable. Now he is restless, disappointed with his sudden discontent. He knows he can’t explain his reasons well enough—Jack was never one for words. He’s a heartless and ungrateful bastard for leaving it all behind. Things here are good. Were good. He knows this isn’t the case everywhere. The world is bigger than him, bigger than his life here, and if there’s just the slightest chance Jack can keep what is his safe, he has to try his luck again.

He steps back, surveying one last time with new resolve before securing his backpack on his shoulders. Just the bare necessities, his soon-to-be commanding officer told him, and he heads down the stairs. Mrs. Morrison, ears as keen as ever, peeks around the corner as she busies herself in the kitchen.

“When did you say Vince was picking you up?” she asks, turning back to the cabinet. Once it’s clear she’s struggling to grab the nice china, he steps in and helps her. She thanks him quickly, debates, and hands them back to Jack to put on the table. Approving of his work, she straightens the tablecloth and asks again.

“Soon.” It’s a lie. While breaking the news to Vincent had gone well and ended with the promise Vincent would wait for him—despite Jack asking him not to—unforeseen circumstances with Vincent’s job forced him to text Jack earlier in the day. He apologized profusely about being unable to drop Jack off at the large Chicago base he was reporting to for basic. Honestly, Jack thought this had worked out better than planned. He wasn’t sure if he could handle the strained small talk he knows Vincent would try to make, as if talking more could fix things. As far as Jack sees it, at least the awkward silences shared with a stranger won’t be anything personal.

Mrs. Morrison frowns and steps over to him, looking up and rubbing Jack’s arm. She’s short, Jack taking after his father’s side of the family when it comes to height. Mary Morrison is wiry and sturdy, freckled and determined. Jack’s proud to say he gets that from her. “How are you two holding up?”

Jack sighs. “Ma.”

She clicks her tongue and goes to the stove. “Okay, okay.” After a minute, unable to help herself, she fusses over him again. “At least sit down, Jack. Dinner’s ready and that father of yours should be in soon. You don’t know when you’ll get another chance to eat real food,” she adds with good humor.

The light coming in through the windows ebbs for a moment as a cloud passes. Jack shifts, noticing its retreat and thinking it’s about time he does the same. “Not hungry.” He grips the straps of his backpack and looks at the door anxiously. “I should head out.”

The hurt is evident for a moment, or maybe it’s just surprise. Whatever it is, Jack feels guilty for it—particularly when she opens for mouth for what was probably going to be a convincing rebuttal and decides against it. Her lips press together, tight with concentration, as she looks over her son and takes him in. Stepping over to his side, Mary clutches her boy’s face in her hands. Jack goes willingly when she pulls him down and kisses his forehead. Her thin hands linger, the power in her grip undeniable as she holds and watches him with a mixture of sadness and pride. His father had served once, as did her own father. Generations of fighting and Jack is going to start his journey to join them. Like all those before him, a flag will rest on his coffin on the day he’s officially a dead soldier. It’s humbling in a good way and makes Jack feel small but one of many. 

“Call me when you get there, you hear me? Before they confiscate your phone.”

Jack blinks and nods, willing his voice not to crack. He can’t trust that it won’t, so he ducks down to kiss his mother on the cheek. She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes at all. For the second time in his life, Jack wishes there were some sort of magic words to say to make everything okay and justify his actions. Before he can figure out what those words might be, she sniffs and swats at him.

“Okay, okay, enough of that,” she huffs, straightening out the front of his wrinkly button-down shirt. She reaches up as if to fix his usually unruly hair before remembering it’s been shaved down. “I’ll let him know you had to leave and didn’t want to be late. Tell Vincent we said thank you, alright?” 

It takes a second too long for Jack to remember the lie he’s told, but he’s out the door before his mother can suspect anything else.

* * *

Jack forgets one important thing: with his mom knowing just about everyone within a five-mile radius, someone is bound to see him and ask her the next day why her son was out walking at dusk in the direction of the bus station. The sun is setting, but Jack pulls his cap down further on his face, hoping it helps. It doesn’t. A few family friends stop, asking if he needs a lift. Regardless of what direction they're heading, he tells them he isn’t going their way.

The plan is to take the bus, transfer to the station closest to the airport, and hope someone there is heading north on 65. The rest is mostly winging it, and with two days until he has to report, Jack is sure it’ll be fine. That’s what road signs are for after all.

The darker the sky becomes, the less frequent the sound of cars on gravel and asphalt is. This doesn’t leave Jack with much besides the sensation of sweat on his neck, the weight on his back, and his own thoughts. Apart from Vincent and where he’s going, there isn’t much else to think about. The unread text sent from Vincent hours ago makes his phone feel heavy in his pocket, but it feels wrong to look at it and never reply, not knowing what to say. He cares about Vincent and he’s breaking Vincent’s heart regardless. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.

Before he reaches the station, the last bus for the evening drives by. Jack flags it down easily and takes a seat. It’s empty, the sickly lights overhead flickering when they hit particularly rough bumps. Head against the window, he lets the vibrations numb his brain as the dying lights of his tired subdivision blur past before they one by one shut off for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends!! Happy writing season!!
> 
> First off, talk about a delay. Life got wild! [GABEtober](https://twitter.com/airafleeza/status/1184507490567933953?s=20) happened. I'm nearly out the other end of that, so I thought I'd refocus on writing. Had to do some significant rewrites with this, so I'm a touch more pleased w it!
> 
> I'm not strong enough to do the full NaNoWrimo, but I am using this month to chip away at my bazillion drafts. Hence the ending of "Indian Summer" at long last!! Hopefully I'll have another fic or two to post before the end of the year.
> 
> Enjoy!! And happy b-day to Gabriel Reyes!! Guess I'm celebrating w a fic re: your boyfriend and his ex? Oops. Pretty sure that's not how this is supposed to go.........................

The morning sun glares down, white and stunning. Jack shields his eyes as he steps out of the car and turns to the women who drove him. He was lucky: the couple spotted him as he waited to transfer to his next bus and thought it was too late for a young man to be out all alone. 

The two women are from Evansville and stopped in Bloomington to get gas before hopping back onto I-64. Their daughter was around his age and attending summer courses in Chicago, they explained during the drive. They were more than happy to drop him off somewhere safe. Initially he was just happy to get out of Indiana faster, but the more he chatted with the driver and her wife, the gladder he was that it was these two who picked him up. They clearly knew where they were going, describing the trip as “just a straight shot.” 

“You sure you don't want to come with us to breakfast? Might be the last time you don't eat powdered eggs for a long time,” the driver—Harry—teases him through her rolled-down window. It serves as a reminder that his own mother is expecting a call. 

Ginny, sitting in the passenger’s seat, elbows her wife good-naturedly and chastises softly in her slight accent that Jack can’t place. “Ah, leave him be. We have kept him long enough, yes?” 

Harry doesn’t give him the chance to agree. “You could meet our Nina! She’d love you.” As if able to sense her wife’s eyes boring into the back of her head, Harry whips around. How this woman is so animated after driving all night is incredible to Jack. “What? He seems like a nice boy!” 

A conservative close-mouthed smile graces Ginny, who stretches a hand towards Jack and ignores Harry. It isn’t the handshake Jack is expecting—instead, she merely clasps his hand in her thin brown one. “It was lovely meeting you, Jack.”

Her palm is without callouses and so small. He still has dirt embedded deep under his nails. “Likewise, ma'am.”

“You will be safe, yes?”

“As safe as a soldier can be.” 

Once Ginny releases him, Harry takes the initiative and gives an enthusiastic handshake. If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d think she was trying to crush his fingers. The playful wink tells otherwise. 

“Kid,” she starts, “we’re wishing you all the luck. Take care of yourself.” They linger long enough to wave before Harry drives away, leaving Jack alone on the sidewalk

He heads to the direction of his hostel, backtracking a bit, but finding his way easy enough. The reservation is for a place in the far northern edge of Chicago. Once the humble sign for the hostel is within sight, he closes the maps app on his phone and calls his mother. Even though his parents are an hour ahead and early risers, they don't pick up. Jack leaves a brief message for her, one that is full of reassurances promising he's checked in and good to go.

Only when Jack is at the front desk, bleary-eyed and stiff from sitting, does he remember check-in isn't for another nine hours. The employee who arrives to help him reiterates this with an apologetic smile but offers to take Jack's backpack to store in the luggage room in case he wants to take advantage of their complimentary waffle bar. Jack declines the offer but is more than happy to make up for last night's dinner by gorging himself. 

A nagging in his head pulls Jack into the mindset he should go sight-seeing. Chicago was never a city he intended to visit, leaving him with no place to start. With war on the horizon, it feels important to impress upon his memory what was here was before it fell—if it falls. If the fighting continues west, Chicago can be another memento right alongside Bloomington. Unfortunately, he's been up over twenty-four hours at this point, closer to thirty from not being able to sleep the night before, and getting up is more of a task with how heavy his limbs feel. An exhaustion headache is coming on, just beneath his eyelids. He can go out this evening, if he has to go out at all. Right now, the couch in the lobby might be the greatest thing he's ever sat on. The comfort it provides comes as a relief and Jack closes his eyes in bliss.

* * *

When Jack was eleven and still had no say in whether his parents dragged him to church, he was signed up for a bible study camping trip. Each parent volunteer took as many kids as they could fit in their car and drove to a lodge deep in the woods. With clear trails, electricity, A/C, and actual plumbing, calling this a “camping trip” was laughable. 

Every room had bunk beds meant for four to six people, and Jack stared at the popcorn ceiling from the top bunk. The other boys were telling ghost stories Jack had already heard and playing “would you rather” while listing off pairs of girls from the church. Their parents complained about office work, never knowing a life where dirt was a permanent fixture under nails and spare change was collected in a tin can by the door. He wondered what he was doing here where he didn’t belong. 

The hostel’s dorm reminds him of the rooms in the lodge, the mattresses plastic and loud every time someone moves. The accidental nap in the lobby has made it impossible for Jack to sleep, his eyes fixated on the mattress above his. Even though it’s quiet hours, conversations go on outside his door. Lights shining in from the street and the sound of an active roadway remind him that while he isn’t the only one awake, he's still all alone.

Quiet is an impossibility, but Jack steals away with his cell phone and heads to the communal shower, walking up and down the length of the hallway as he presses his phone to his ear and waits for Vincent to pick up. He ignores the sign stating phone calls are only allowed in the lobby.

He’s beginning to second guess himself when Vincent says, “hello?” in a deep voice that cracks with sleep. Jack imagines him in bed, rubbing his eyes and looking pretty sore about the whole situation. If someone or something managed to wake up the heavy sleeper, he rarely was happy about it.

“Hey!” Jack says. Too loud, he realizes, and lowers his voice. “How are you?”

Vincent clears his throat. “Tired. Do you know what time it is?”

“Late.” He tries to go for something light, but when Vincent doesn’t laugh like he usually would, Jack kicks himself for being stupid and letting his compulsions get the better of him again. “Hey, sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine,” Vincent sighs. There’s some shuffling on the other end. “How’s Chicago?”

“It’s… different. It’s huge, but everything feels crammed together. Electrical bills for businesses around here gotta be off the charts.”

With a hum, Vincent comments, “That’s big city life for you” and doesn’t contribute further.

Jack scrambles for something to tell him. Suddenly, he remembers something from when he picked up his key at the front desk and saw the rows of pamphlets for things to do in the city. He grabbed a few as reading material, hoping it would either inspire him to one last night on the town before basic or put him to sleep. It failed and Jack is instead aware of several museums, the best places for pizza, and a shiny metal bean downtown.

Instead of touching upon either of those topics, Jack mentions Boystown. 

After sixty seconds of disbelief with intermittent laughing, Vincent calms down enough to speak. “Wow, that’s…”

“Appropriate?”

“That, and not very subtle. Might as well have a big sign.”

Jack shrugs. “If rainbows everywhere count, then yeah, they have that covered.”

“You don’t have to report until the day after tomorrow—think you’ll check it out?”

The question puts him through a loop. After his brain rights itself, Jack laughs nervously. “Why would I?”

“Well, you’re gay, honey. That’s a start.” Vincent sounds smug. It’s not a very compelling argument by Jack’s standards. “Usually there are clubs and shops. Places like that—they’re nice. When I stayed with my aunt in Sacramento, we drove through Lavender Heights once.”

It’s rare for Vincent to bring up that painful period of his life. Jack knew of Vincent in high school and remembers a friend telling him Vincent was in California for the last month of their junior year. It was only after they started dating a few years later that Jack found out Vincent’s parents had just kicked him out, and his aunt took him in for a few weeks in the hopes that things would cool down eventually. They never did.

“I don’t know,” Jack says carefully. 

Vincent huffs. “You’re a good guy, Jack. After your service in wherever the hell they send you, you’ll come home. Sit under your own tree. You know, the good stuff. I’ll be here if you...you know, want. I’m not going anywhere.”

The Sheeprock on the wall next to him is cold when Jack presses his forehead to it. “I want to come home, Vince.” It’s a painful, quiet confession. It comes with a bite and worry, but never once does he ask himself if he’s made a mistake.

The slow intake of breath extends his torment. Vincent exhales sharply. “I know you do.”

“You never asked me to stay.”

“Because I couldn’t do that to you.” The voice on the other end sound thick, like something is caught in his throat. “Not because I didn’t want you anymore.”

Jack balks. “What—” 

Nothing would have changed if Vincent had, Jack realizes belatedly. Asking Jack to stay would have just made things more difficult. More messy.

“Do you want me, Jack?” Vincent’s voice is low and serious. “After everything, you never said you still wanted me.”

“Of course I do.” He grips the phone pressed to his ear like a lifeline, eager and terrified to hear what Vincent has to say next. _Of course I do_ , the confession repeats in his head, reverberating off his skull. _I tried to stay, don’t you see? I stayed until I couldn’t_. Even now, standing around in a utilitarian hostel hundreds of miles away, he wishes he could have stayed longer.

“Jack, I’d wait for you—but I won’t if you want more. If you do, I think you should go out and get it.”

He shakes his head until he remembers Vincent may sound close, but really, he’s far, far away. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Then why?” Vincent sounds tired again and a touch exasperated. “They don’t even think the fighting is going to come over here. The news says the omniums are under surveillance. You didn’t have to leave, but you did. You’re already gone.”

Outrage nearly makes him yell. Weeks of agony and torment, guilt and loneliness. He doesn’t expect anyone to be grateful, but the mere suggestion that Jack wanted this tears at him. If he had his choice, he’d be back in his old routine. Work and family dinners, mapping the familiar stars in the sky. The same love for familiar things is also what forced him into a recruitment center, signing up to face the unknown. He never had a choice.

Vincent’s voice is the first chilled breeze that brings about the end of an Indian summer. “It’s okay, Jack.” There is sadness and acceptance in his soft-spoken words. Irritation flares hot in Jack’s veins. “Knowing what you don't want is just as important as knowing what you do.”

“I wanted you.” The pervasive realization that he’s used the past tense spreads throughout his entire body. Jack chokes, unable to elaborate in a convincing way. It sickens him, how he sounds like he’s begging when he told himself not to. Vincent shouldn’t have to shoulder his fears and loneliness on top of his own.

“Do you?” The patience is infuriating. “Or do you just want to take care of me?”

An audible, shaky exhale escapes Jack’s body, his heart deflating in his chest. “Aren't they the same thing?”

“No, baby." Vincent is kind, kinder than Jack thinks he deserves. He’ll ruin Vincent, if he’s given time and chance. "They aren't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harlow and Ginny are my OCs and I love them. When they're not driving Jack Morrison to Chicago, they're kicking monsters in the butt and being awesome lesbians. Woo hoo!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!!! For anyone who is interested, I also draw these old fools quite often! Find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/airafleeza) and [tumblr](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/).


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